The Defense: A Novel (13 page)

“Elevator’s passing the fifteenth floor; they’re coming up,” said Victor from the hall.

“It’s over,” said Volchek. “Arturas, kill him. We have to run.”

My heart stopped as Volchek began to raise the phone to his ear.

“No! You can’t. The feds will be here any second. You’re out of time. Let me talk. I’ll get rid of them. I can do it!” I yelled.

“Olek, we can’t run. He’s right. We have no time,” said Arturas, his face pale with fear; his plan was collapsing around him.

“Sixteenth floor,” Victor called.

“Let me go. Let me do it. I’m your only play here,” I said.

Volchek hesitated and hung his head. He whirled around, ready to lash out, but stopped. He swore. I readied myself, arms wide, feet set. It would take half a second to grab Arturas’s wrist with my right hand, drag it to my chest, and hold it firm with the knife close to my skin and another half a second for my other hand to grab his elbow and push for the sky, breaking his arm and dislocating his shoulder. That still wouldn’t give me enough time to grab the phone from Volchek before he ordered my daughter murdered.

“Seventeen,” said Victor, marching back into reception.

“Everyone sit down. Arturas, give me a file. We’re in this room to work on your case. Everyone calm down—I can do this,” I said, my voice almost giving out.

Arturas removed the knife from my skin and reversed it, hiding the blade from sight.

“If you try anything or if I even see you get off your chair, I will have the girl’s throat cut. Do you hear me?” said Volchek.

“I hear you,” I said.

He was back on the phone. “I’m hanging up. If you get a text from me in the next few minutes, you kill the girl.”

I watched him typing something onto the keypad of the cell phone before he held it up toward me. It was a text message.

Kill her,
it read, and below the message were two options: send and delete.

“My phone will be on that table. If I push one button, she dies. Remember that,” said Volchek.

I heard a chime and the clatter from the elevator doors opening. We scrambled for the chairs. Volchek and I sat at the desk. Arturas threw a file to me from the suitcase, and I opened it to a random page. Arturas and Victor sat on the couch.

Just for a second, I saw a man in a suit walk briskly past the door. He turned and signaled to someone behind him, then quickly moved past the office. Behind him came a tall man wearing a white shirt and navy suit—the same man with the dark, slicked-back hair whom I’d seen talking to Miriam just moments before. He stopped at the door, made a circling motion to the first man, then stepped into the office.

“I’m Bill Kennedy, FBI,” said the tall man in the navy suit, flashing ID. I was right; I can spot a fed a mile away. “Are you Eddie Flynn?” he asked.

“I’m Eddie Flynn. If you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of a meeting with my client. He’s on trial for murder, in case you hadn’t noticed, so if you’ll excuse us.”

I turned away from Kennedy and met Volchek’s eyes. His phone lay on the reception desk. The text message still there, waiting either to be sent or deleted. I hid my hands. In these situations, when you can, you hide your hands. They give you away. They shake, or you hold your fists too tightly, revealing bone-white knuckles, or they become variously colored, depending on which hand you’ve been squeezing to hide your anxiety.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me,” said Kennedy.

“I’m
afraid I don’t have time for the FBI’s little games. Close the door on your way out.”

Kennedy said, “Mr. Flynn, if you don’t come with me, I’ll have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

“The DA put you up to this?” I asked.

“I’ve been informed of a possible bomb threat. My protocols are clear, but I’m hoping we can clear this up and avoid an arrest. If you step out, we can talk. I’ll just need a few moments.”

A small, almost imperceptible shake of the head from Volchek and he placed his fingers on top of his cell phone.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

“Mr. Flynn, I want you to stand up.”

“No,” I said firmly. My hands began moving nervously under the table.

Kennedy reached into his jacket, drew his Glock 19, and held it against his thigh.

“Mr. Flynn, this is your final warn—”

I cut him off. “You have to be the dumbest FBI agent I ever met,” I said.

“Let me spell it out for you—if you’re not on your feet in ten seconds, I will arrest you,” said Kennedy, his voice rising, his tone more aggressive.

Two men arrived in the hall behind Kennedy; one came from his left-hand side, one from his right. The other agents I’d seen earlier. They must have come up in the elevator together and swept the whole floor while Kennedy kept me talking. These men wore dark suits and white shirts. The man on the left looked Italian. He had good skin and clear, youthful eyes. The other man was squat and powerful, with red hair and an untidy mustache.

I don’t know if I saw Volchek move or if I just sensed his movement. It didn’t matter really. I reached for his phone, to stop him, but he had taken his hand away and placed it on the desk beside the phone. Inclining my neck, I saw that the draft text message remained on the phone, the options to send or delete still available. I couldn’t read Volchek’s expression, but I heard him exhale before he folded his arms.

“Floor is secure,” said the young, tall agent.

Both of the agents registered that Kennedy’s gun was drawn.

“What’s going on, Bill?” said the red-haired agent.

Kennedy ignored his colleague.

“Mr. Flynn, time’s up.” He took the Glock two-handed and held it before him, aiming it at the floor.

The smaller agent with the red hair said, “Bill, take it easy. He’s just a lawyer.”

Kennedy ignored him. I took a moment to survey Agent Kennedy. He held the Glock in a two-handed grip: his right hand around the butt of the weapon, his left cupping his right, stabilizing the aim. The skin surrounding his left-hand thumbnail looked raw and swollen, as if he’d been worrying the nail. I took this as a sure sign of a nervous and cautious man. The FBI held Little Benny in protective custody somewhere, and Kennedy was obviously worried as hell about losing his prize witness. He had every right to be nervous.

In moments like this, I was usually cool. I’d been in tight spots before, but never with my daughter’s life hanging in the balance. It was that thought that brought my anger. Just like in the limo. I needed that anger. It cleared my head, and I remembered Arnold Novoselic, downstairs, talking to Miriam, and I saw my way out.

“I want to know your probable cause,” I said.

Kennedy didn’t answer. He didn’t retaliate with another threat, either. He just stood there. Then I realized that if Kennedy had felt solid about arresting me, I would have been facedown on the floor with his knee on the back of my neck two minutes ago. Kennedy was unsure about this whole thing. I pressed harder.

“So what’s the probable cause, Agent Kennedy? I have a right to know the probable cause for any action by the state affecting my constitutional rights. What’s your cause?”

The gun wobbled a little in his grip before he said, “We have information from a source that you discussed explosives with another individual in court,” said Kennedy.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. This can all be straightened out after the trial. I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize it.”

I let this sink in for a moment. I wanted to get him thinking, doubting.

“Agent Kennedy, this conversation I supposedly had in court about explosives. By any chance was I having this conversation with Mr. Volchek?”

“I believe so,” said Kennedy.

I breathed slowly, calming myself before I made my play.

“So who did Miriam Sullivan hire to spy on the jury? Wouldn’t be Arnie Novoselic, by any chance?” I said.

Kennedy looked surprised but tried desperately not to show it.

“We can debate this later. On your feet, Flynn.”

He’d dropped the “Mr.,” and I knew I was getting somewhere. I formed the impression that I’d touched a nerve. Kennedy shifted his feet, growing anxious, probably wondering if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. I leaned back in the chair and gave him my best shot.

“Agent Kennedy, if you arrest me, I’ll sue the federal government for ten million dollars. And I’ll win. I’ll take your job and your director’s job. But the cherry on the cake for me will be the mistrial. If you arrest me, my client will be guaranteed a mistrial. The prosecution will have to adjourn the case to allow my client to seek new representation, and Judge Pike won’t let a jury sit on a mob trial that’s going to adjourn for a year while Volchek’s new lawyer gets up to speed. No way. She’ll declare a mistrial and swear a new jury next year when Volchek’s new lawyer is ready.”

Kennedy suddenly became very still. Any nervous movement stopped. I felt like I’d made an impact.

“Prosecutors operate on a strict budget in this town. How’s it going to look if it comes out that the DA paid a huge sum of money to dirty little Arnold? Agent Kennedy, your prosecutor’s jury consultant is illegally spying on the jury. Now, I don’t know if Miriam was fully aware of how Arnold operates when she hired him, but she knows now that Arnold professes to be able to lip-read. He probably told you he lip-read
me
. I can assure you I didn’t mention a bomb. He didn’t tell you that he
heard
me say that, right? If he is lip-reading me, or trying to, he’s also lip-reading the jury. That’s contempt of court. That’s jury tampering. That’s five to ten, real time. That man spied on me when I was talking to my client. Anything I say to Mr. Volchek in court is about his case. You won’t be able to persuade a judge otherwise. Everything we discussed is confidential, protected by attorney-client privilege, and it’s illegal to violate that privilege without a court order that’s seen the inside of the Supreme Court.” I leaned forward to hammer my closing home. “So let me get this right. You’re going to rely on the evidence of an unscrupulous man, engaged in illegal activity in a courtroom, who violates my client’s attorney-client privilege and reports some bullshit story to you so he can look good and maybe get on the federal expert witness panel? You arrest me now, on that, and you’re a fool, and I don’t mind taking your job and the government’s money. So go right ahead; arrest me. Win my case for me and make me a rich man.”

I held out my wrists for his cuffs. I looked confident and assured. Secretly, my guts were churning and my heart beat so fast I felt like I was about to go into cardiac arrest.

Kennedy didn’t move.

“Bill, don’t do this,” said the red-haired agent behind him.

Kennedy’s lips curled into a snarl. He couldn’t make up his mind, and it was killing him. I didn’t know if it was the crippling indecision or the rant from me, but he stood down.

“This isn’t over, Mr. Flynn,” he said, holstering his pistol. In spite of my efforts to hide my anxiety, I couldn’t help but let out a sigh.

His hands fell to his thighs, and I saw him scratch at his thumb.

He turned to leave. As I dropped my hands down, he stopped suddenly and looked me over.

Anger and indecision seemed to leave him. He noticeably relaxed and said, “We’ll talk again.”

And then, as quickly as they’d arrived, they were gone. I could hear the hushed voices of the agents in the corridor and then a dull metallic clang as one of them kicked the elevator doors. Sweat rolled down my brow. I wiped my face and felt a sting from my cheek. In my hands, I saw glistening sweat and a dark smear of blood. Arturas must have cut me when he held the knife to my face. Dried blood had stained the cuff of my shirt. It must have been the blood from my palm when I’d crushed the bourbon glass.

None of this mattered. I’d gotten through it. That was all. My right arm came across my chest to still my heart. The tips of my fingers brushed against the small bulge from the wallet that I’d taken off the big guy in the limo, the monster who’d almost taken my head off. I needed to get a look at that wallet. I needed to know exactly who I was up against. I couldn’t risk a look until I was sure that I was alone and unobserved. Not yet, but soon.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tension headaches had plagued me for most of my life until I’d learned how to cure them. What was the cure? A six-foot-tall hooker named Boo, who posed as a fake physiotherapist in an insurance fraud I ran before I became a lawyer. She stopped turning tricks when we started to make real money from the insurance companies on the whiplash scam. Then she really got into her role. She took a night class, stopped wearing short skirts and plunging necklines beneath her white coat, and began wearing the proper uniform.

I would be up most of the night, repairing the hit cars for the next sting with my neck burning from the strain of working under the old wrecks. Boo stayed in the office and studied anatomy. She taught me all about posture: holding the neck up, relaxing the muscles, straightening the back and breathing correctly. Her technique never failed—a snap of the head, hold it back for two seconds if you can stand the pain, then relax. I later adapted her posture advice for my stance in court; it made me more relaxed and natural. Rolling my shoulders, I performed her stretch. I heard the elevator gather the feds with the clank of the old doors as they closed.

Arturas’s grin returned. Volchek laughed.

“You did well,” said Volchek as he picked up his phone and deleted the text message.

A successful con artist relies on a number of different skills. None of these skills is worth a damn if you can’t get people to trust you. Building trust with a potential mark is no different from building trust with a jury—the same shit applies. My persuader ran perfectly by destroying Goldstein; now I’d shown the FBI the door. I felt like I’d earned Volchek’s trust. The only thing left to do was exploit it.

“How do I know my daughter’s still alive?” I said.

The grin that Arturas wore slipped slowly away, and he set his lips firmly together.

“You can talk to her. You’ve earned it. Do not try to give her any signals. She is calm. Remember, she thinks the men with her are private security that you arranged because of a threat.”